"This," replied Jonathan, taking a paper from a portfolio, and handing it to the knight, "this written evidence, signed by Martha Cooper, the gipsy, by whom the girl was stolen, and who was afterwards executed for a similar crime. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. "My friends need not fear my return. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. Jonathan had not deceived him. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven.
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